


Words Left Unspoken

by AuroraKant



Series: January Prompts [6]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: (And Possibly Fails), Aftermath of a TBI, Bruce Wayne Tries, Bruce Wayne's A+ Parenting, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Post-Ric Grayson, Ric Grayson Fix-It, We Are Dealing With Comic Canon Kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28935915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraKant/pseuds/AuroraKant
Summary: Bruce and Dick have a conversation long overdue.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Series: January Prompts [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2086611
Comments: 26
Kudos: 145
Collections: January Prompts





	Words Left Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Marzue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marzue/gifts).



> Hello!  
> The wonderful Marzue gave me the prompt "Don't force me to do that" and the post-Ric setting, so here we are now!  
> I hope you enjoy this!

“What?”

Bruce’s voice was heavy with shock, but Dick couldn’t find it in himself to care. His eyes stayed firmly glued to the cup of coffee cradled in his hands, his jaw clenched, his shoulders squared in decisiveness.

“You heard me just fine.”

Dick’s answer didn’t seem to satisfy the man, a deep sigh escaping Bruce. The sounds of the café surrounding them did little to muffle the frustration bleeding out of every pore Bruce possessed – but Dick reminded himself once again: he didn’t care.

He no longer cared.

He was too tired to think of Bruce when he made his choices, too old, really, to care about what his adopted father might think.

“Why would you choose to do that? Why leave the… the mantle like that?”

“Because it doesn’t feel right. Its not who I am anymore. At least… it is not who I am right now.”

“You are Dick Grayson. My son. A Hero. You will always be just that.”

Bruce was careful not to spill any secrets in a crowded place like this one, and yet Dick could hear all the words his guardian wanted to say. What a weird side-effect of regaining his memories: suddenly he could read Bruce again. Suddenly, he understood the elusive Batman better than he understood himself.

When Bruce said “Dick Grayson” he meant so many things. He implied great things, grand things – but Dick failed to connect with any of them.

Who was Dick Grayson?

A hero. A kid. A victim.

Not if you asked Bruce Wayne. If you’d asked Bruce, he would tell you how clever Dick was, how flexible – mentally and physically – he was in the field. He would tell of you of all the grand deeds Dick had done, of his commitment to saving the world. He would fall over himself to depict Dick as perfect and wonderful and almost-too-good-to-be-human.

Dick was sick of it.

Maybe that was why he had chosen this place specifically to meet with Bruce.

The café was loud and bustling, the barista gleefully yelling at her co-workers as another rush of costumers entered the small space. The smell of coffee and cocoa and cinnamon hung heavy in the air, the overhead lights decorated with colorful recycled bottles sent a kaleidoscope of color dancing over the people enjoying their drinks.

It was a public space. One filled with life and sound and anonymity.

And it was neutral ground.

Dick had to have this conversation with Bruce, had known as much from the moment on Batman had sent him on a wild goose chase through Gotham that ended in front of a Nightwing suit.

And they couldn’t talk at the Manor. There was too much resentment still bubbling in Dick’s stomach to listen to anything that might leave Bruce’s mouth while they were surrounded by those daunting walls, generations of Waynes staring down at him from their mighty portraits.

Plus, Bruce tended to grow territorial whenever he was at the Manor, or downstairs, in this dungeon some called the Batcave.

Once upon a time Dick had called it that as well.

There was no place that would be Dick’s territory. His stint as Ric had ensured that Dick no longer had a home to stay at, and his return left him with an impersonal hotel room and nothing more.

So, a café it was.

The silence stretched between them like a physical thing, Dick’s eyes focused on a drop of condensation running down Bruce’s glass of water. Everything just so he didn’t have to look Bruce in the eye.

Not that Bruce needed Dick’s whole attention to still be a presence in the back of his head. There was an aura that always surrounded Bruce, making him bigger than he actually was. Scarier as well.

“Talk to me, Dick.”

And yet conversations would always be Bruce’s weak spot.

“What do you want me to say? I told you, that I am not ready to return to the mantle. That should be it. Done. Finished. You can go now.”

“You are… _him_. You created _him_. You can’t just leave _him_ behind because you feel like it… _he is you_.”

“I created the small one as well. And look where that got us: a line of legacies who do not deserve the name and yet deserve better than you.”

Something bitter was coating Dick’s tongue, something that tasted almost like hatred.

It wasn’t even true. Dick loved his little siblings. Now that he could remember them again, his dreams were haunted by Jason’s lost smile, and Tim’s daring laughter. His heart soared for a chance to see Damian again, and his fingers tingled in anticipation of a spar with Cass.

But some part of him… it was true, wasn’t it?

Except for Damian, every single one of them had been given Robin by Bruce. By a man who took the name Dick’s mom had given him, and gifted it to children who had not yet earned it.

Dick didn’t want Nightwing to suffer the same fate.

And yet… and yet he couldn’t just return to the game. The name.

“Dick…”

There was so much sorrow in Bruce’s voice.

Finally, Dick tore his gaze away from the glass, meeting his dad’s waiting eyes. Blue met gray, and Dick cursed himself, because he could read every stress line etched into Bruce’s skin, every downturned muscle twitching on his face.

Bruce was lost. Desperate. Sad.

Well, good for him – maybe he would finally understand how Dick felt. How Dick had felt for the endless months he had been Ric.

“Do you know how many head traumas I have suffered from, Bruce?”

“Dick. Wha-?”

“I didn’t know either, so I checked. A truly horrible number. I mean, we all remember that recent shot to the head, but turns out that wasn’t the first time my brain took a bullet. So… two major gunshot wounds to my head, and at least fifteen concussions Alfred has on my medical record. Probably more, I didn’t tell you about.”

Silence. Heavy, stifling silence surrounded by noise.

“Do you have any idea what that does to a person, Bruce? My brain is mostly scar tissue at this point. I am only functioning as well as I am because we got lucky. One new concussion and I could be done. No more flips. Or kicks. No more talking or swallowing or remembering anything at all.”

Bruce wanted to say something, but Dick couldn’t let him. If he allowed Bruce to speak now, the man would never stop. And Dick needed him to understand, he needed him to _see_.

“It’s already bad enough. Did you know that I can no longer do long division? I tried. But my brain just… it looks at these numbers and it fails to comprehend. It feels like a foreign language – only that I remember being good at math. I remember being able to do it… my handwriting… I don’t recognize it. I had to cancel my cards and order new ones, because my signature isn’t the same anymore…”

A deep breath. A moment of serenity. And then:

“I am one concussion away of losing everything I have struggled to reclaim over these past few months.”

“So, you want to stop completely?”

Whenever things got too emotional, or too close to reminding Bruce of the mortality that made all of them heroes, Bruce just… stopped, turned all business. All traces of _Father, Concerned, Loving_ vanished from his face, and suddenly you were forced to deal with a mundane version of Batman.

Dick would always remember as much.

And did he want to stop? Was that the real reason for his reluctance to return to the Nightwing mantle?

Dick didn’t think so.

“No. Or at least… if I risk my life, my future, each and every night, I go out there and fight… I want to know that I am doing it out for the right reasons. Not some misplaced feeling of guilt or duty… but…”

It was hard to find words, when so much of Dick Grayson was still lost. Yeah, he had gotten most of his memories back, but that didn’t just annul all the trauma he had been through. The loneliness. The pain. The migraines and the alcohol and the homelessness.

Dick had been off-balance for a long time by now, and it was finally catching up with him.

“But?”

“I want to know that I am doing it for myself. Because I want to. Not because you tell me, or because Babs is mad at me.”

“No one is mad at you, Dick.”

Dick couldn’t help himself, his left eyebrow climbing up in disbelief. Nobody was mad at him? Yeah, sure. That perfectly explained the glares and silences and poisonous words almost all members of the family had spit in his face since his return.

It reminded him of his return from Spyral. Instead of being happy about the fact that Dick was alive, they had been furious with him for lying.

(as if he had had a choice – but then again, Dick oh, so rarely did)

“Well, then tell them that. Because for me it sure as hell feels as if they are. Hell, most of the time it feels as if you think, getting shot in the head was my fault.”

It was the truth, and yet it surprised Bruce.

It was fascinating to watch the horror bleed into this stony face, to watch as Bruce realized something that had never been hidden from Dick.

“That’s not- I- Dick! I am not mad at you! I- I care for you! I would never…”

“Ah, so that’s why you showed me the video evidence of getting shot in the head. That’s why you never once performed a background check on the psychiatrist you assigned to my case. That’s why I never saw you when I was struggling for money. When I had to chose between my meds and food. When I slept on park benches or in my car.”

Anger was a tight, hot ball in his chest. Always growing, always consuming more.

Dick hadn’t known… he had never thought these words would leave his mouth. They were his secret. His dark thoughts hidden away in the deep corners of his mind, never to be seen. But then again… Bruce had always been the best when it came to making Dick lose his cool.

“I- You wanted distance! You- You were so mad at me, Dick… I couldn’t… I did what I thought was right, and, yes, in hindsight, I made many mistakes, but… I made none of these choices with the intention of harming you.”

“But you did. You did harm me. I was… I still am a person recovering from a TBI. You retraumatized me, you cut my financial support-“

“You would have had all the support if you’d only asked for it!”

Silence echoed through the café, the shockwave of Bruce’s yell even reaching the other patrons. Dick pressed his back against the chair, his posture painfully straight, his heartbeat fast and panicked. It had been so long since Bruce had yelled at him like this.

It was hard to remain calm, when your entire body demanded a fight or flight response, but Dick stayed put. His nails dug into his palms, painful crescents appearing pink on his skin.

The barista was looking at them, as were most of the people in the small space, but Dick forced a smile, calming them down, telling them that everything was alright. Next to him Bruce had paled.

This would appear in the gossip rags.

Dick was almost grateful for it.

For a painfully long moment neither of them spoke, the first trickles of conversation starting up again around them. Only when the noise was back to normal, did Bruce speak:

“I am sorry. It was… It was not my place to lose my temper like this.”

“It’s… It’s alright.”

No, it wasn’t.

“What I meant to say… Dick, it was never my intention to have you living on the streets. I wanted to give you space. Heck, some part of me was convinced you would be better off without me in your life.”

“And yet when I asked you to not press me about _him,_ you are pushing forward. Ric was left alone… but Dick doesn’t get that privilege?”

It felt weird to talk about himself in the third person, but how else was Dick supposed to make his point. Ric and Dick were both a part of him, even if Dick feared no one else really understood that. Ric had been him… a different version, maybe, but that didn’t make the experiences he had while wearing a wife beater and a leather jacket any less valid. Any less real.

“I just… I want what is best for you. You have to see that.”

“What I see is a man desperate to reclaim what was once his.”

“I don’t understand.”

And how could Dick explain?

He worried his lip between his teeth, brows furrowed, as he thought about his answer. His heartbeat was still accelerated, but at least his hands had stopped shaking… and Dick hadn’t even drawn blood. Thank god.

“People want to own… _him_ , Bruce. The Court… Joker… heck, even you. You want Night- _him_. And I… I never get asked. About any of it. I am just. I am just a thing to be useed in all of this. But maybe… maybe I want to own myself. If I am _him_ … then _he_ can only fly, if I want _him_ to.”

It had shaken him terribly to come back from the Joker War only to realize that… two evil organizations had effectively stolen his body from him – and Bruce had claimed him just as they had. It felt stifling to be called someone to be owned.

Nightwing was never just Nightwing. He always belonged.

Dick was sick of belonging. Sometimes the truth he had told Babs still rang true: Yeah, Ric had been miserable, suffering, alone… but at least he had been happy. At least he had been allowed to be just Ric.

“So, you give up being _him_? You’re not coming home?”

Bruce said it as if Dick was committing a crime, as if Dick was slighting Bruce and everything he stood for, by prioritizing himself.

“Don’t make me chose, Bruce.”

“I thought this is what it is all about? You, having a choice. You, choosing to do something.”

“Yes. A choice about my own life, Bruce. My own future… my identity. Not whether or not I am a part of this family… whether or not I am allowed to stay even if I am not useful in your crusade.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. You are my son, Dick. You will always be my son.”

“Then act like it!”

This time it was Dick’s voice that grew loud. This time it was Dick who shocked the café into silence. Sooner rather than later they would be asked to leave by the nice barista or one of the waiters bustling about.

Sooner or later their conversation would have to end.

By force or by choice – but end it would.

“The last time I did, you ran away! You… you let the Manor and me and… and _him_.”

“Because you hurt me. And I didn’t know you… Bruce, don’t you see what we’ve become. We- We are supposed to be father and son, but… but this entire talk feels like a fight between Batman and Robin. Like business partners unhappy about a deal, not… it doesn’t feel like what I remember us to be.”

And that was the crux, wasn’t it?

Dick had gotten his memories back.

And suddenly his head was so full, his heart overflowing. Suddenly, he remembered being nine and happy, ten and distraught, eleven and slowly healing, twelve and laughing out loud at Bruce’s antics.

Suddenly, it wasn’t a stranger that hurt him… it was Bruce, his dad, who left him alone and suffering and vulnerable.

“And what do you remember?”

“I remember you being my dad. Taking care of me. Reading me bedtime stories after I had a nightmare… I also remember us fighting but… I don’t know… past-me was apparently convinced that you respected him and his choices. Him and his abilities. That you… trusted him. Us. Me.”

“I do trust you, Dick.”

“Then let me be the person who decides whether or not Nightwing flies. Let me be the one to make the call regarding my own identity. My own life.”

“I-“

For a man as big and tall as Bruce, it was shocking to see how fragile he could look. His grey eyes were overshadowed by grief, and his shoulders were hunched – it was hard to see Batman behind the fright so clearly visible in Bruce’s face.

“Listen to me… Don’t make me chose, Bruce. Not when it comes to this… let me walk my own path. If you… if you can’t find it in yourself to let me be, I will have to leave. I will have to go. Only this time it wouldn’t be a stranger that left… it would be me. Dick Grayson. Your son. Don’t force me to do that.”

“I am not forcing you to do anything.”

Dick was tired beyond his years. He felt old and worn… he felt exhausted from all this fighting.

“Aren’t you, though? Who was it that prepped _his_ suit for me to find? Who was the one who constantly hinted at my return to the mantle? Who pushed and pulled at me until I followed an order? Until I broke? That’s you, Bruce. And now, I am putting a stop to it.”

Dick took the last sip from his now cold coffee, pushing the chair back. It felt good to stand up after such a long time sitting down. It felt good to say these words, and to no longer drown. For too long Dick had let his guilt suffocate him… for too long, Dick had let them treat Ric like that.

“If – and it is an if, Bruce – I return to be _him_ , it is my own choice. It is me making a decision fully aware of the ramifications and the danger for my health. It is not you who can make that choice. And it never was.”

“What can I do then?”

“You can try and learn to listen. Until then… I have a life to rebuild. Good day.”

Dick left Bruce behind – maybe to see him again, maybe to part forever.

It was Bruce’s move next, and Dick couldn’t wait for the decision his mentor would make. It could heal or destroy them – it could be an olive branch or an ax.

There was a bitter taste on his tongue – Dick wasn’t sure if it was only the coffee, he had to thank for that. There was a bitter taste on his tongue – Dick decided that that’s what hope tastes like.

**Author's Note:**

> Bookmarks, Love, Kudos and Comments make me VERY happy! <3


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